


Spring Release Trigger

by Zoya1416



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Humor, Lesley May Has a Dirty Mind, M/M, Phosphorous Grenades, Voyeurism, sexual favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In “Kick the Ball Dead," by neveralarch, Nightingale and Caffrey are caught together, and Nightingale says “Lesley is going to accuse me of trading sexual favors for grenades. She won't put it like that, but it's what it'll amount to.”<br/>“You only did that the once,” said Frank.</p><p>This is the once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Release Trigger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Kick the Ball Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252431) by [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch). 



“This seems quite a high price, Frank. Higher than before, and I know the grenades haven't gone up in price. White phosphorous just isn't that expensive.”

Lesley had come into the magical library after searching for two hours in the mundane one. She liked the magical library, but Nightingale would monitor them more often while they were in it, checking from time to time apparently to make sure they hadn't stumbled onto some enormous secret. Why it would be here instead of secretly locked away was the question. Anything that dangerous should be in the un-spoken-of third library. But maybe a student had left notes in some book or another about it. She always took time to at least thumb through five books beside the one she was working on, in case she ran across any magic about transformations. Anything that she could use, anything that she could ask Nightingale to teach her—even if she had to heal her face cell by cell there must be some way. 

More likely, he was checking to be sure they were treating the books carefully. The margins of all the books, mundane and magical, were filled with questions and comments from generations of students gone by, but she and Peter were under strict order to refrain. She was tempted to spend hours in here—such a grand space with the leather-bound books, and the movable ladder up to the second floor of books. The Folly was so posh, so large. She'd never imagined living in such a enormous space. 

She often felt claustrophobic, though, in spite of the size. They didn't go out a lot, spending many hours studying. Latin, Greek. Getting to use the target range, the _magical_ target range, to throw fireballs. And a bit—something else. Lonely, perhaps. Estranged from other police, certainly. Even though she'd never thought she'd miss it, she did miss nights on patrol, reeling in drunk and disorderly citizens, chasing purse-snatching ASBO's, giggling about Americans who said their fanny packs had been cut loose. If they only knew what they were saying. She missed colleagues, although she was very glad Peter was here. Not the same, though.

Now, though, there was a conversation going on very close by, about two rows over. It must be in the next open area with chairs and a table. It was Nightingale and someone else. Who had—it sounded like the large man, Frank Caffrey, who'd been here before. She'd only been introduced to him by name. His features—mid-forties, broken nose, hair shaved down to a brown fuzz—weren't that remarkable—but by his movements and body language, she thought he'd been with the Paras at some point. 

He and Nightingale were negotiating something now.

“Everything else has. The men's wages, the truck's petrol...”

“That's still about the same. But you've increased the price—eight hundred pounds from last time. Break it down for me.”

“The truck itself. It's listed as a false alarm, times two trucks, that's twelve hundred right there. It's going to be rated an A because we know a conflagration is going to be set. The men—they're mine, you know, and ex-Paras aren't cheap. Fifty an hour times three hours, times eight men—we're got to have four for each truck. That's another twelve hundred. You pay me, personally, three hundred.”

She could hear a little smile in his tone, and wondered how Nightingale was responding. Probably a glare. He had all kinds of glares, and was good at them.

“This includes eighty for the four grenades, of course.” Now she could hear a smirk in Caffrey's voice.

“But you've listed thirty-five hundred. Why the extra eight hundred? The Folly _is_ a part of the Met. We are a specialist unit, however much they want to overlook us. The commissioner can't cut us off completely, but he's certainly going to question this.”

Nightingale's tone was severe, almost scolding.

“Well—most of the cost is for maintaining that very low profile with the Fire Brigade powers-that-be. You don't think my guvnor would just let me take a firetruck anywhere without a call-out, do you? I have to rotate fire stations so I'm not using the same one. That's a different chief to—discuss the situation with.”

“I thought that you were more or less autonomous. That's what you said about calling up the men.”

“I am. But—we have to use our own grenades, don't we, if the vampires get out and you don't. They're always in residential areas. Hard as fuck to destroy them if they get out. I need to be able to put a team together quickly whenever you need me, and I need something to smooth over things if the situation goes wrong. Collateral damage control. And I need it up front. Christ, Thomas, you know there's weird shit and then there's _your_ kind of weird shit. You can't collect from a dead wizard.”

“Still quite a high price.”

A pause. “Maybe I could give you a discount.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe—if you'd like to pay—in kind.”

“Barter? Whatever with? The Folly owns everything, you know.”

There was a small whisper she couldn't hear, then an unusual sound. It was Nightingale laughing quietly, chuckling actually, she realized.

“Really? So how much would I get off if I were to—” his voice dropped and she couldn't hear the last bit. “I would think that extra eight hundred at least.”

She could not have moved if rats were running across her legs.

“Well, see, it's a seller's market, Thomas, because you don't have any other suppliers. But—I'll let you have off four hundred.” 

Quiet for a second, then a short intake of breath. A sniff? Snort? 

“...don't waste any time haggling, do you?” Another chuckle. She had never heard Nightingale laugh—he rarely showed more than a slight smile. But what in hell— then sound, again tiny, barely audible—something like—like fabric swishing. A minute, two minutes, more...  
Someone was taking deeper breaths, trying to be quiet about it. Frank—why?  
“Ahhh. Mmm.” slightly louder—then—“oh god”— 

Why they hadn't gotten up and locked the door was a mystery.

She supposed they—if they—if _Nightingale!_ and Frank Caffrey were up to what it sounded like they were, they meant to be quick.

There was the unmistakable sound of a zip going down.

She wanted to see them so badly she was shivering. Her face inside her mask was sweating more and she silently rubbed it, cursing as always. Was there any view—any opening of books—she crept quietly, very quietly around the corner of one bookshelf, then tried to find an opening to peer through. If she took out some books here—no, there was no opening wide enough, and she _had_ to see this. Her phone, curse it, was still back on the table. 

She dared a peek around the second bookcase. 

Frank Caffrey's back was turned to her, and he was leaning back—lying back? In one of the library's massive leather chairs. His left hand was clenched hard into the arm of the chair, and—where was his other hand? Clutching at—hair? A head? The chair wasn't quite massive enough to mask her view. It was more than she'd ever imagined seeing, though. She'd thought that she would catch them snogging, and that would be ridiculous, everyone could laugh about it.  


But this—she knew she was more—realistic about Nightingale than Peter. She'd been forced into the Folly sideways after her face was demolished and she'd learn to produce a werelight all by herself. She hadn't had that _glowing_ moment of being chosen by him. He was her guvnor, magic was fascinating, she'd give it up in five minutes if it meant getting her face back. 

It was amusing to see Nightingale in this situation, she'd never imagined this about him. Who would imagine the perfectly put together man, never a hair out of place, always in those ridiculously expensive suits —who would imagine that the Victorian, excuse me, _Edwardian ___gentleman would—well, men were always getting in trouble, anytime. She could see perfectly polished shoes, heels up, a bit of gray trouser leg along the carpet in front of the chair—the trousers had been razor-creased this morning at breakfast. They wouldn't be now.

So—Nightingale—Nightingale!—was kneeling in front of Frank Caffrey doing—something intimate. She could imagine the details. Was it hands? Or more probably mouth. The mouth with the posh RP accent, tongue curling around...Maybe it was even both, if he'd pushed Frank's thighs far apart enough to made room for his hands. Hand on the balls, another holding the hard shaft, the mouth at the top purple bulb...

She shouldn't watch more, she'd get caught, as dearly as she wanted to see the conclusion, and she tried to withdraw silently. But the edge of her mask rasped against the shelf, and, quicker than thought, Nightingale was looking straight at her. God, what quick reflexes he had. Must be from the army. She was blushing under her mask, feeling the uncomfortable heat on her skin, but trusting her quick mouth to get her out of this.  


"So, trading sexual favors for grenades, guvnor. Carry on.” She dashed out of the library, slamming its big door closed.

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon on this is that 1)Nightingale uses a bit of glamour for him and Frank to step out of the library seconds later, everything buttoned, trousers creased, hair normal, just enough to make her question what she saw,.
> 
> Or 2) just magically locks the door and carries on. 
> 
> I like carries on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Catch Me if You Can (Her Side of the Story)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365766) by [Zoya1416](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416)




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